


A Series of Calamitous Events

by ningloreth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ningloreth/pseuds/ningloreth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accident with a Time-Turner sets off a series of calamitous events that Draco and Hermione struggle to reverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Series of Calamitous Events

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **nightfalltwen**.
> 
> The prompt was wonderful— _Part of Draco's probation involves hours of work under supervision at the Ministry. He is tasked, with Hermione, to catalogue ancient artifacts in the Department of Mysteries. Time-turners malfunction and both are sent back in time to __________ —and I spent a lot of time trying to decide where to send D&H—Roman Britain, Jacobean England, the Great Exhibition of 1851, even the copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ in Hermione's little, beaded bag—but none of those places suggested a story to me, so I started writing and, when Draco opened the door, I just peered outside... My!Draco is usually quite sweary, and generally a sex god, so I did have a bit of trouble keeping him R-rated! The title's stolen from the obvious place.

**—31 April 2000—**

“I'd have thought,” said Hermione, “that you would love doing this.”

She had always thought of herself as a supportive person, but a whole week of Draco Malfoy's sulking—filling the small annex with a silence so oppressive it threatened to crush her head—was more than even she could tolerate. Still, she had volunteered to help Malfoy settle into his new job, and she took her responsibilities seriously, so she made another effort: “I mean, getting to handle all of these amazing artefacts...

“And,” she continued, “if you ever wanted proof that the Wizengamot has faith in you—why else would they be allowing you to work in the Department of Mysteries whilst you're still on probation, and letting you loose on potentially dangerous objects?”

Malfoy said nothing.

“Oh, for goodness' sake!” she exclaimed, letting her frustration get the better of her. “I know what you've been through, Draco, but you really can't expect—”

“You don't know anything, Granger, so shut it!”

“Oh my god, it can speak!” 

Hermione's hand immediately flew to her mouth, and it didn't surprise her that Malfoy reacted badly to her sarcasm, but she wasn't expecting him to grab the nearest object and fling it at her. 

The thing hit her shoulder, fell, and, tangled in her curls, hung there, pulling at the roots of her hair. 

“ _Ow!_ ” She caught hold of it—

And a kaleidoscope of colours burst around her, twisting and turning into a long, narrow tunnel that snaked off, upwards, somewhere over the ceiling, whilst something else, unbearably painful, grabbed her by the navel and yanked her, screaming, into the tunnel's infinite coils...

...

**—31 April 1998—**

“Granger...” said Malfoy, his voice sounding disturbingly close in the blackness that had suddenly engulfed them.

“ _Granger?_ ” Hermione struggled to sit up. “Is that—is that all you can say? _Granger?!_ ” She felt like a beetle flipped upon its back “Oh, help me get up!”

“ _Lumos..._ ” 

In the dim light of his wand, Malfoy leaned over her, slid his hands around her waist, and lifted her. He wasn't gentle, but— _Merlin!_ —his fingers seemed to fill her body with tingles, teasing her in the most intimate of places... 

Blushing, she shook him off, and surveyed their surroundings. 

The room they were in was small, and completely empty—of the benches she and Malfoy had been sitting at, of the artefacts they'd been cataloguing and the scrolls they'd been updating, _of all their hard work_ , there was no sign!

“Well, we're certainly not in Kansas any more,” she muttered. Then, “Where are we, Draco?”

Malfoy's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug, and Hermione noticed a long, slender chain looping from his wrist to the object tangled in her own hair. Gingerly, she raised a hand, and examined it. 

“A Time-Turner,” she said. “You threw a bloody Time-Turner at me!”

“Look, I've said I'm sorry, haven't I?”

“ _No_ ,” said Hermione, “as a matter of fact, you haven't.” She looked around the room again. “You must have turned it, somehow—”

“ _I_ must have—?”

“And,” she continued, ignoring his protest, “it brought us here together, because you were still holding the chain, but”—she frowned—“it's moved us in space as well. Why's it _moved_ us, Draco?”

Malfoy shrugged again. 

Hermione tried to untangle herself.

“Oh, for Merlin's sake, come here,” said Malfoy. He took the Time-Turner from her hands, and unwound her hair from it, seemingly unaware that his fingertips kept brushing the bare skin of her neck.

“No,” Hermione gasped. “No, I can do it myself... Draco, stop it...”

“I'm only trying to help.”

“Yes. Yes, I know. I'm sorry. It's just that”—Hermione squirmed—“um... Can you—can you just be a bit more careful?”

She heard Malfoy snort. “Afraid I'll ruin your lovely cardigan, Granger?”

“No, it's not that, it's—” She managed to swallow a moan.

“There,” he said. “You're free.” 

Hermione watched him gather up the chain, unhook it from his own sleeve, and slip the Time-Turner in his pocket. She couldn't tell if he was aware of the effect he'd had on her, but she did sense a change in him; he was no longer sulking—in fact, he was much more like the confident Malfoy of old.

“Right,” he said, picking up his glowing wand, “we'd better find out where we are.” He got to his feet, and headed for the door.

“Be careful.” Hermione scrambled after him. “You've no idea what might be out there.”

Malfoy turned back to her, his pale eyes searching her face as though he were trying to decide whether her opinion was worth considering. Then, “Good point,” he said. “ _Nox_.” 

He stowed his wand and, turning the door knob slowly, eased the door open, waiting until he was sure there was no one outside before he opened it wide enough to see out. 

Hermione's view was limited, but—peering round Malfoy—she made out a wall of beautifully carved stone, the foot of a broad flight of stairs and, high above, the glint of a chandelier. To her, it looked like some quiet corner of Malfoy Manor. “Do you recognise it?” she asked.

“No...” Malfoy stepped out into the passageway.

“Be careful,” she reminded him.

“You're sounding like my mother, Granger.”

 _That’s because_ , thought Hermione, _you're acting like a big, unpredictable kid_. She followed him.

The corridor—a long series of Gothic arches—was dark and windowless, and appeared to be underground. Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that some menace was lurking in its shadows, and—judging by the way he was tiptoeing so cautiously—Malfoy seemed to be sensing the same thing. 

Silently he led her to the foot of the staircase...

And stopped dead.

Then he retreated, forcing Hermione backwards, behind him, into the stairwell and, together, they crouched in the darkness, his hand on her back, his warm thigh pressing against hers... 

The impending danger only seemed to heighten Hermione's physical response to Malfoy's touch. She bit her lip, and tried to focus. Suddenly, a figure in long, black robes swept down the stairs, turned, and stood with his back to the wall. 

Hermione suppressed a gasp, for his face was covered with a silver mask!

“Come on!” he barked. “Quickly!”

A long line of bent, shambling figures, chained together and escorted by Snatchers, shuffled slowly down the stairs and, turning right, disappeared down the dark passageway.

The impatient Death Eater followed them.

“ _Those prisoners are Muggles_ ,” Hermione whispered. She reached for her wand.

Malfoy grabbed her arm, his grip painfully tight. “ _We can't do anything for them, Granger_ ,” he whispered back. “ _Not on our own_.”

“ _But..._ ”

He squeezed harder, and Hermione realised that his hand was shaking; she grasped it reassuringly.

They waited until they were certain they were alone again, then waited several minutes more, and then Malfoy tugged Hermione’s sleeve and, together, they stumbled back to the room they'd just left and shut the door behind them.

“ _What on earth's going on?_ ” she whispered. 

“ _The Death Eater was Yaxley_ ,” he replied.

“ _Yaxley?_ ” The name jogged something in Hermione's memory, but she couldn't quite bring it into focus. “ _How d'you know?_ ”

“ _His voice_ ,” Malfoy replied. “ _And his mask. That was definitely Yaxley's mask._ ” He brought a hand up and rubbed his face. “ _Crap!_ ”

 _Yaxley_ , Hermione was thinking, _Yaxley... Yaxley..._

_Of course!_

The Time-Turner was part of a hoard of Dark artefacts confiscated from _Yaxley_! 

_It can't possibly be a co-incidence..._

She replayed the accident in her mind, remembering the strange tunnel, and the _pull_ she'd felt at her navel.

 _My god_ , she thought. _It's a Portkey!_

“ _A time-travelling Portkey_ ,” she whispered. “ _It's the perfect way to get out of trouble—you can do whatever you want, then twist the Time-Turner and—Bam!—you're back home a couple of hours before anything has happened._ ”

“ _What? What're you talking about?_ ”

Hermione explained her theory.

“ _So you reckon we're in Yaxley Court?_ ”

“ _Yes. I mean, probably._ ”

“ _That would make sense_ ,” said Malfoy, thoughtfully, “ _because Yaxley's supposed to be in Azkaban. So either he's escaped and gone Muggle-hunting, or..._ ” His voice trailed away.

“ _Or what?_ ” Hermione prompted.

Malfoy reached into his pocket and brought out the Time-Turner. “ _Or_ this _has brought us back to the middle of the war._ ”

“ _But that would be at least two years_ ,” said Hermione, doubtfully.

“ _I know_.” Malfoy slid down the wall and sat on the floor, leaning his head back against the stone. “ _So what in Merlin's name're we going to do, Granger? I mean, normally, with a Time-Turner, you just wait to catch up with yourself, don't you? But we can't hide in here until the end of the war._ ”

Hermione sat down beside him.

“ _Could we really have travelled so far back in time?_ ” she mused. If Malfoy were right—and even if he weren't, there was no denying that they were trapped in a basement, surrounded by Death Eaters and Snatchers—what on earth _were_ they going to do? 

“ _We just need to get outside to start with_ ,” she decided. “ _Once we're outside, we can... Well_ ”—if she could find out the date, she'd have a better idea; if the war was still raging, maybe they could Apparate to Grimmauld Place, or to the Burrow, or to Shell Cottage—“ _we can take it from there. We'll be all right, Draco._ ”

Malfoy turned his head, smiling bitterly. “ _Nice pep talk, Granger._ ”

Hermione sighed. She knew that Malfoy wasn't brave like Harry, or dependable like Ron; she knew that, at best, she would have her work cut out keeping him focussed and, at worst, she might find herself betrayed or abandoned... 

But it never occurred to her to abandon _him_.

...

“ _Ready?_ ” whispered Malfoy. 

With help from Hermione, he'd managed to remember a visit to Yaxley Court with his father—remember that the Floo connection was in the drawing room—and, with his knowledge of the workings of a great house, he seemed confident that he would be able to find his way there now.

“ _Yes_ ,” Hermione replied.

Malfoy opened the door and, wand raised, Hermione slipped out into the passageway and checked in both directions. “ _It's clear_.”

Malfoy joined her. 

Silently, they crept to the stairs, climbed them, and crossed the darkened entrance hall.

“ _This way_ ,” Malfoy whispered, taking the lead. He bypassed three doors without sparing them so much as a glance, and opened the fourth. 

“ _Got it in one!_ ”

Hermione followed him into the drawing room. 

It was long, and narrow, with a row of tall windows along one wall; moonlight was filtering through the gauzy curtains, dividing the room into patches of light and shadow, illuminating the elegant furniture and, at the far end, a marble fireplace. 

Hermione approached the fireplace and, fascinated by its carvings—which, in the red light of the fire, seemed to be writhing, like snakes—she didn't notice the portrait hanging over its mantelpiece, until the occupant, a brutal-looking man in a periwig and lace cravat, peered down at her, and shouted, “MUDBLOOD! MUDBLOOD!”

“ _Silencio!_ ” hissed Hermione, thrusting her wand at him, but she was too late. Before her spell had taken full effect, Yaxley had burst through the door and grabbed her, almost throttling her with a stout arm around her throat. 

Hermione struggled frantically, looking for Malfoy...

“How d'you get back here, you little bitch?” panted Yaxley. He dragged her into a shaft of light. “I _do_ know you...”

“The man's with her,” said the portrait.

Yaxley turned this way and that, hauling Hermione with him. “Where are you?” he demanded. “Show yourself! Come on!”

Malfoy stepped out of the shadows. “It's Draco,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “Draco Malfoy. I'm on your side.”

“Draco Malfoy...”

Hermione's heart sank. 

“Please,” Malfoy continued, “don't damage her, okay? The Dark Lord wants her and, whatever's going to happen to her, he wants to do it himself.”

Hermione struggled harder; Yaxley tightened his grip.

“She's _my_ prisoner,” Malfoy insisted. “I've got her under an Imperius Curse. _She does whatever I say_.” 

He shot Hermione a meaningful look, and Hermione dared to hope; it took almost no effort to pretend that Malfoy was in control and let herself sag against Yaxley...

“I found her hiding in Hogsmeade,” Malfoy continued. Hermione noticed that he was edging closer and closer. “I was taking her back to the Manor—”

“Then what're you doing back in my drawing room?” Yaxley demanded.

“Floo trouble,” said Malfoy, without missing a beat. “I was—you know, busy with her—and I got out at the wrong grate, so—” 

“So now she belongs to me,” Yaxley finished, triumphantly. “And _I'll_ be taking her to the Dark Lord. But maybe _I'll_ get busy with her first—

“No!” Malfoy raised his wand. “She's Malfoy property!”

Yaxley laughed. “You Malfoys really think you're—”

Malfoy's arm shot out. “ _Confundus!_ ”

Hermione felt Yaxley's grip loosen as he forgot what he was doing, and she ducked free and ran to Malfoy, who—still aiming his wand at the Death Eater—grabbed her and pulled her towards the fireplace, crying “Floo powder, Granger!”

Hermione scooped up a handful from a brass coal scuttle and threw it into the flames, and Malfoy yelled a destination.

...

Hermione stumbled from the Floo, and immediately went for her wand.

“What's the matter with you?” said Malfoy.

“You really _are_ planning to hand me over to You Know Who, aren't you?”

“What?! _No!_ Don't be stupid!”

“Then why've you brought me to Malfoy Manor, Draco?”

“It's my _home_ , Granger. I just”—he shrugged, as though the answer should have been obvious—“I just came _home_. And you might want to stop throwing a tantrum and bloody-well thank me for saving you.”

Hermione tried to process his explanation. “Home,” she murmured. “Okay...” She took a few deep breaths, and put her wand away. Then, “ _Confundus Charm?_ ”

“If I'd used a Stunner, he'd have fallen on top of you and pinned you down,” Malfoy replied. “Besides,” he added, without a trace of embarrassment, “it was the first spell I thought of.”

Hermione shook her head. “Not really sure what that says about you, Draco...” She sat down on one of the wing-back chairs, exhausted. “But thank you,” she added, because she knew how much courage it had taken for him to step in and save her. “I am grateful. Honestly.”

“I should think so,” said Malfoy and, for a moment Hermione glimpsed the cocky Draco she hadn't seen since their fifth year at Hogwarts, the Draco she'd always secretly...

“What now?” she asked, quickly changing the subject. “This may be your home, but we're certainly not safe here.”

“No,” Malfoy agreed. “Well, that's your department, Granger—you're the one who knows what was going on in the outside world. Where would _you_ hide—”

“Draco? Draco, _darling_!” Narcissa Malfoy came gliding across the room, arms outstretched. “What are you doing back from Hogwarts?” She spotted Hermione, and stopped abruptly. “Is that—”

“Mother!” Smiling, Malfoy took Narcissa's hands and brought them to his lips; Hermione looked away. “She's with me,” she heard him say. “I need to get her somewhere safe.”

“But, Draco...”

“I haven't time to explain, Mother; I'm sorry. But it's important.”

Narcissa lowered her voice. “ _I know you've always liked her, darling_ ,” she said. “ _A mother notices these things. But it isn't safe, for either of you—_ ” She broke off, for footsteps were echoing in the hall, and voices were coming closer. 

Hermione's eyes met Malfoy's. Was there time to use the Floo? Where would they go?

“Mother,” Malfoy pleaded, “we need to hide.”

Narcissa didn't hesitate for a second—she went to the wall, seized a candle bracket, and opened a concealed door.

“Come on, Granger!” said Malfoy and, grabbing her hand, he pulled her through the door and down a flight of stairs.

...

“It's a Warlock Hole,” said Malfoy.

“You mean...” Hermione looked round the tiny cell, with its stone floor, rough wooden table, three-legged stool, and narrow bed. She knew that warlocks were exceptional wizards, typically skilled in martial magic; she supposed it made sense that, in the past, ancient, pure-blood families like the Malfoys might have used Dark Warlocks, and needed to conceal them. “Like a Priest Hole.”

“We'd better make ourselves comfortable,” said Malfoy. “We could be here a while.”

Hermione took the stool; Malfoy sat on the bed. After what seemed like hours of strained silence, they were both startled by a house-elf, appearing with a loud _pop_. 

“Mrs Lucius says that you and”—the elf eyed Hermione dubiously—“the Miss are to stay down here, Master Draco, where it's safe. Mrs Lucius will send Meddle to tell you when you can come out.”

“Thank you, Meddle.”

The elf clicked his fingers, and food was deposited on the table—pumpkin pasties, bread and cheeses, tomatoes, pickles, fresh butter and apples. _It's like an Enid Blyton feast_ , thought Hermione. _Except with lashings of wine instead of ginger beer_.

“I don't usually drink,” she told Malfoy as he was uncorking the bottle.

“And you don't usually escape from one maniac only to have to hide from another, Granger,” said Malfoy, “so...” He paused. “Well, maybe you _do_ have more experience of that than most people. But still...” He poured her a glass. “Try it. It's good stuff.”

Hermione took a sip. As always, she found the taste disappointing, but the warmth of the alcohol, filling her chest and relaxing her aching limbs, was most welcome. She drank some more. 

Malfoy, meanwhile, was cutting slices of bread. “Help yourself, Granger.”

Hermione piled a plate with food, and settled down to eat.

“You're right,” she said, between mouthfuls. “About us having to wait until we catch up with ourselves, I mean.” In the quiet of the Warlock Hole, she'd had a chance to think it through. “But we’ll need to go away—well away—to somewhere where we can't possibly affect events, because there'll be two sets of us walking around for the next two years and we have to make sure that our other selves still do what they're supposed to do—do exactly what we've already done—we can't risk changing the course of the war, Draco, or You Know Who might win. 

“ _And, god, the more I think about it_ ,” she whispered, “ _the more it terrifies me!_ ”

“Limousin,” said Malfoy.

Hermione frowned. “Sorry?”

“My parents have a _maison_ in Limousin. There's a Portkey in the Library that'll take us there. The place is miles from anywhere. It has a vegetable garden, an orchard, and there are animals—cows and hens and so on...” He shrugged. “It's a boring place, but no one will bother us there.”

“Limousin...” Hermione took another sip of wine. She wondered what it would be like to spend two years playing house with Malfoy. She was sure that half of the time she'd want to kill him. 

And the other half, she'd probably want to...

“Perfect,” she said, yawning. “Mmm, I’m tired.”

“Toss you for the bed, then,” said Malfoy, taking a coin from his pocket.

“A true gentleman would give the _lady_ the bed,” said Hermione.

“I... don't think you want to hear my reply to that, Granger.” He tossed the Sickle, caught it, and slapped it onto the back of his hand. “Call.”

“Heads.”

Malfoy looked at the coin. “All right,” he said. “I'll sleep on the table.” 

Hermione insisted on checking.

“You thought I was being noble?” he scoffed.

“I wouldn't put it past you.”

“Nah.”

He cleared the table with a sweep of his wand and they divided the bedding between them, and settled down for the night.

“You're good at bluffing,” said Hermione. 

“Mmm?”

“With Yaxley. You were really convincing.” She tried to find a more comfortable position. “ _I_ believed you.”

“Mmm,” said Malfoy.

“Draco...”

“Mmm?”

“When you said you were 'busy' with me, what did you mean?”

“You know very well what I meant, Granger.”

“Well, yes, that's what I thought. But then Yaxley said that he might get busy, too, so... I mean, surely...”

“You're so innocent.” Malfoy turned to face her. “They were all at it during the war—they _are_ all at it, now, I suppose—and Yaxley was one of the worst. It's the power, you see; it gives them a permanent hard-on.”

“But _you_ didn't...?” Hermione realised how inappropriate the question was, and let it die on her lips.

“ _I_ didn't have any power,” said Malfoy. “I was powerless.” 

Something in the way he said 'powerless' made Hermione's blood run cold. “Draco...?”

“No, Granger. They didn't, thank Merlin. But some of them threatened.”

Without thinking, Hermione reached out, and touched his hand. This time, her body's reaction was welcome—comforting—and, when his fingers pressed hers, she smiled. 

And, as she was drifting off to sleep, she thought she heard him say, “I'm sorry for what my mad aunt did to you, Granger.”

...

**—1 May 1998—**

Meddle came for them early the next morning.

“The Dark Lord has summoned your father and Severus to the Ministry, darling,” Narcissa explained as she herded them towards the fireplace, “because Yaxley has captured Harry Potter, and—”

“NO!” cried Hermione. “ _Draco!_ ”

“Shit!” said Malfoy.

“Darling?” Narcissa looked from her son to Hermione and back again. “I thought you'd be relieved. What is it?”

“Mother...” Malfoy led her to the sofa and—whilst Hermione was pacing anxiously round the room, trying to think of a way to put things right—he described the Time-Turner accident—

Hermione came to an abrupt halt. “That's it! We'll use the Time-Turner!”

Malfoy looked up at her. “Use the Time-Turner to do what?”

“Put things right.” She crouched down beside him. “ _We_ did this, Draco! You told Yaxley you'd found me at Hogsmeade, remember? Well, you didn't know it, but Harry, Ron and I did go to Hogsmeade—we must have been there yesterday! And Yaxley must have reasoned that where _you'd_ found me, _he'd_ find Harry! How long is it since we first arrived at Yaxley Court? Twelve hours? We'll turn the Time-Turner thirteen times—”

“No!”

“—and arrive thirteen hours ago—” 

“We don't even know this Time-Turner will work properly!”

“—and then we’ll lure Yaxley into the drawing room, and this time you'll tell him you caught me somewhere else—Diagon Alley, King's Cross Station, Timbuktu—it doesn't matter where, as long as you don't say Hogsmeade. Then we'll come back here, and go straight to France.”

“The last time that Time-Turner... _turned_ ,” said Malfoy, “it brought us back two years! And now you're planning to turn it thirteen times? We could end up twenty-six years ago!”

“No, no,” said Hermione. “I've worked that out. It went wrong because it was turning _and_ spinning through the air when you threw it at me. Anyway, _we're_ responsible for this, Draco. We've changed history. So we have to try, or god only knows what will happen!” 

She turned to Draco's mother, and tried to appeal to Narcissa’s maternal instincts: “If the war goes as it should do—as it already has for us, Mrs Malfoy—Draco will survive. Yes, he'll have to spend six months in Azkaban awaiting trial, but then he'll be given two years' probation, working with me in the Department of Mysteries. As you can see”—she patted Malfoy's knee—“he’ll come out of it safe and sound. But only if we put things right.”

Narcissa looked at her son.

“Mother...?” said Draco, uncertainly.

She raised a hand and cupped his cheek, staring at him intently, as though she were memorising his face. Then, with a sad smile, she replied: “You need to go with Miss Granger, darling.”

Petulantly, Malfoy brought the Time-Turner out of his pocket and dumped it in Hermione's hands. “It's your crazy idea,” he said. “You do it.”

Hermione looped the chain around his neck, and then around her own, and began turning.

...

**—31 April 1998—**

“Ugh,” said Malfoy, rubbing his stomach. “That'll never catch on.”

They were back in the empty room at Yaxley Court and, to Hermione's relief, there was no sign of their earlier selves. “So far, so good,” she breathed. “Now we'll just go up to the drawing room, yell for Yaxley, and”—she turned to Malfoy—“you'll tell him you found me in Diagon Alley.”

“I must need my head examining,” he muttered.

...

The drawing room was still bathed in moonlight, the fire was still glowing, and everything else looked exactly as it had on their previous visit. Hermione marched up to the portrait of Yaxley's ancestor and, waving her arms to draw his attention, shouted, “Hey! There's a Mudblood in here!”

The man stared down at her, confusion creasing his brutal brow.

“Call your descendent,” Hermione taunted. “Tell him there's a Mudblood polluting his drawing room.”

The man looked perplexed.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin!” Malfoy cried, and upended a side table, sending a collection of precious silverware and cut crystal crashing to the floor. “There! That should do it.”

They waited for Yaxley to come running. 

“Is that Draco Malfoy?” he panted. “What—what're you doing here? Is that the Granger bitch with you?”

“I found her hiding,” said Malfoy, belatedly grabbing Hermione by the arm, “in Diagon Alley, and I was taking her back to the Manor, when—”

“ _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” snarled Yaxley.

Hermione felt her arms snap to her sides and her legs shoot together, and saw the room slowly cartwheel over her head, until it stopped with a sickening thud and she found herself staring up at the ceiling. 

Through rigid eye sockets, she saw Yaxley come into view, bending over her with an expression that was somewhere between triumph and greed. She couldn't feel him, but she knew from his movements that he was pawing her body.

 _Oh god_ , she thought, _do something, Draco! Please!_ Please! _Stop him!_

Malfoy did nothing, but Yaxley straightened up, showed her that he'd found what he'd been looking for—her wand—and, with a flourish, he threw it away. 

Then he pulled up his sleeve to expose his Dark Mark.

 _DRACO, WHY AREN'T YOU DOING ANYTHING?_ Hermione screamed silently, and then the answer came to her in a flash—something Malfoy had said or done had spooked Yaxley, and Yaxley had frozen him with the Body-bind Curse as well; Draco was as much at Yaxley's mercy as she was!

But Yaxley seemed to be hesitating now, his hand hovering over his forearm.

 _He's not sure!_ thought Hermione. _He’s not sure, and he's afraid of crying wolf and annoying You Know Who! Oh, please god, please let him have lost his nerve! Yes! YES!_

Yaxley's hands had disappeared from view. “ _Levicorpus_ ,” he said. 

Had she been able, Hermione would have sighed with relief; as it was, she simply watched herself float closer to the ceiling. She heard the fire crackle and _roar_ as Yaxley threw Floo powder on its embers, and then she saw the chimney, stretching up above her, as she was manoeuvred into the green flames.

“Ministry of Magic,” said Yaxley.

...

The next twenty minutes were nothing but a succession of ceilings—the peacock blue and gold of the Atrium, the black marble of the corridors, the polished wood and metal of the lift. Hermione wondered how Malfoy was bearing up, and was suddenly filled with guilt at the thought of her broken promise to his mother... 

They passed through another door, and she found herself staring at the pink granite and gilded cornices of Dolores Umbridge's personal office.

“What is it?” said Umbridge, sounding as though she were completely absorbed in whatever she was doing, and couldn't be bothered to look up.

“A Mudblood and a blood traitor,” said Yaxley. 

Hermione tried to hold her breath.

“Well you're not leaving them in here, cluttering up the place,” said Umbridge, testily. “Take them down to the holding cells.”

“This isn't some common or garden witch,” Yaxley protested. “This is—this might be—”

“They're all important to _somebody_ ,” said Umbridge. “Take them down to the cells for processing.”

There was a long moment's silence, and Hermione imagined Yaxley's trying to kill Umbridge with a look. “Your funeral,” he muttered.

...

“Two prisoners,” Yaxley announced. 

Hermione could see nothing but a nondescript patch of darkness overhead, but she assumed that they were in the holding cells, and she pictured the gaoler as a little, goblin-like creature, hands clasped together, bowing humbly. 

“The Dark Lord will want to know that the girl's here,” Yaxley added.

“That's all very well,” the gaoler grumbled, sounding appropriately small and goblin-like but not at all humble, “but where'm I supposed to put 'em? Eh? You tell me that!”

“How should I know?” Yaxley replied. “Look—

“They'll 'ave to go in the broom cupboard. Unfreeze 'em.”

The Death Eater protested, on both counts.

“I can't get 'em in the cupboard if they're stiff as boards. Unfreeze 'em.”

Hermione heard Yaxley mutter the counter-curse, and felt her body sag. 

“Right. Open the door for me,” said the gaoler. He pronounced a weird spell, which ended with what sounded like “...and _Liberacorpus!_ ” but Hermione was too busy rolling through the air and landing in a heap to be sure.

The door slammed shut behind her, and she found herself in total darkness.

“ _Malfoy?_ ” she whispered.

Something moved beneath her. “What?”

“ _Are you all right?_ ”

“I've been better,” he growled. “And less squashed.”

“ _Did Yaxley take your wand?_ ”

“What d'you think? And why're you whispering?”

“ _We need to get out of here_.”

“Yeah, no kidding, Granger. Let me see... D'you happen to have a spare wand and Potter's Invisibility Cloak tucked in your knickers?”

In spite of everything, Hermione found herself grinning. “ _No_ ,” she said.

“Pity.”

They both fell silent, and Hermione—trying hard to ignore the warm and tantalising body lying beneath hers—attempted to devise an escape plan, but it all seemed hopeless, for even if they could somehow open the door, they'd still have to get to the lifts, and then up goodness-knew-how-many floors, and then across the Atrium... 

And Polyjuice Potion wasn't an option. 

“ _But you're Draco Malfoy_ ,” she whispered. “ _I'll bet if you just march through the Atrium with a Mudblood prisoner in tow, no one'll stop you._ ”

“Hmm,” Malfoy replied, his squirming sending spears of excitement through her nether regions, “sorry to disappoint you, Granger, but I'm pretty sure that being a Malfoy doesn't count for shit at the moment.” His hands moved.

“ _Oh..._ ” Hermione whispered. “ _Draco, please stop it..._ ”

“What? I'm only trying to get more—” His fingers brushed her breast. “Oh... okay.” He took his hand away. “Sorry.”

But the damage had been done. Hermione's arms twined about his neck and, in the darkness, her mouth found his at the third attempt, and they kissed, lightly at first, and then with growing hunger. It felt exactly like a kiss ought to feel—how Hermione had always _wanted_ a kiss to feel—like the prelude to something momentous. She was in heaven, and her body was begging for more—aching to go all the way. 

She felt something hard, and smiled against Malfoy's lips—

_OH MY GOD!_

They both pulled apart at exactly the same moment, crying, “The Time-Turner!”

“ _How did he miss it?_ ”

“I don't know!”

She heard the clink of chain as Malfoy brought it out of his pocket. “Come closer,” he said, and she leaned forward until her forehead was on his shoulder, and felt Malfoy's hands loop the chain around her neck.

“Back to Yaxley Court then,” he said. 

Hermione grasped his wrist. “ _One turn_ ,” she said. “ _We need to go back into that drawing room_ after _Yaxley's taken our other selves to the Ministry, and find our wands_.”

...

“Will we _never_ escape this place?” said Malfoy.

“Well, at least there’s more room in here.” In the dim light seeping under the door, Hermione risked a glance at Malfoy, and found her body responding...

She looked away. “We'd best get moving.”

They'd begun to work as a team, like Auror partners, taking turns to lead as they slipped out into the passageway, climbed the stairs, and crossed the entrance hall. When they reached the drawing room, Malfoy silently opened the door and they peered inside, and watched Yaxley search their other selves, find their wands, and toss them away.

“ _Is my hair really as bushy as that?_ ” Hermione whispered.

“ _Worse_ ,” Malfoy replied. “ _It gets wilder every time we whirl back here_.” He turned to her. “ _How many of us exist now, anyway?_ ”

Hermione waited until Yaxley had disappeared into the Floo. “Four pairs, I think,” she said, following Malfoy into the drawing room. “Or maybe three— _Silencio!_ ” She hurled a wandless Silencing Charm at the troublesome portrait.

“To be honest, Draco,” she admitted, getting down on her hands and knees to search for her wand, “I've lost count. I just know that we need to get well away, wait until our other selves disappear, and then everything will be back to normal.” 

_At least_ , she thought, _I think it will. Please god, I'm right!_

“Yes!” She found her wand amongst the shards of a crystal decanter and its spilt contents, wiped it carefully with the hem of her cardigan, and tucked it into her sleeve. “Here,” she said, picking up Malfoy's wand and holding it out to him.

“Thanks. Now,” he said, taking a pinch of Floo powder, “Limousin?”

“Limousin,” Hermione agreed. She scrambled to her feet and came up beside him.

But, before he could cast the powder, the embers suddenly burst into tall, green flames.

And Lucius Malfoy stepped out of them.

...

“Draco!” said Lucius. “What are you doing here? Where's Yaxley?”

“Father...” Draco shuffled backwards, reaching out behind him, and Hermione—realising that he was trying to shield her or, at least, to hide her—stepped closer. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I've come to speak to Yaxley... Is that... Draco, have you recaptured the Mudblood?” 

Draco backed away, taking Hermione with him. 

“You have!” cried Lucius, excitedly. “Draco—this gives us another chance! We can hand her over to the Dark Lord, and the Potter boy will do whatever he asks!” He reached past his son. “Come here, girl.”

Hermione went for her wand, intending to cast a Stunning Spell—

“No, Father,” said Draco. “You must let it go.”

Hermione’s hand froze.

“Let it _go_?” said Lucius, incredulously.

“Listen to me, Father,”— Draco’s voice dropped to a whisper—“ _we don't want the Dark Lord to win_ —”

Hermione grabbed his arm and gave him a warning squeeze—if he persuaded his father that it was in the Malfoys' best interests for Voldemort to lose and, as a result, Lucius behaved differently in the Battle of Hogwarts, they’d be changing history again! She could only hope that he would realise...

“— _I_ don't want him to win—that's what I mean, Father,” he said, “ _I_ don't want him to win. And”—he moved closer—“I don't want him to hurt _her_. Please, Father. Go back to the Manor, wait for the Dark Lord's summons, and... and I'll be there when it comes, I promise—but leave Granger here for now; with me. _Please_.”

Lucius Malfoy drew himself upright, and looked down his nose at Draco, his expression changing from disbelief, to anger, to bitter contempt. “You are no son of mine,” he said.

In answer, Draco calmly brought out the Time-Turner, looped the chain around Hermione's neck, and turned it.

...

“Dammit!” cried Hermione, pacing round the empty room. “Dammit, dammit, _dammit_!”

“What's the matter?” Malfoy wrapped the chain around the Time-Turner and slipped it back in his pocket.

“We've blown it again!” she cried.

“What? What're you talking about?”

“Your father's just disowned you, Draco! God, we'll never get things back on track!”

Malfoy laughed—a genuine belly-laugh.

“What's so funny?” said Hermione, crossly.

“My father disowns me three times a week, Granger! Tomorrow, I—well, one of the other mes—will be at his side when You Know Who snuffs it, and Father'll be thanking Merlin that his son and heir's survived. Today's disowning will be forgotten.”

Hermione frowned. “Honestly?”

“Honestly. The more worrying thing”—he looked at her thoughtfully—“the _much_ more worrying thing, is the way you seem to have turned into a half-way decent person, Granger. The sort of girl a chap could easily—”

“ _I_ seem to have turned...?”

“A girl with Malfoy-level intelligence, Slytherin-worthy cunning, and a killer body—under that shapeless cardigan.”

Hermione shook her head in disbelief.

“So,” he said, “Limousin? I reckon we've got time before Yaxley catches our other selves in the drawing room—provided, once we're in there, you can silence that portrait before it starts yelling.” He flashed his maddeningly attractive smile.

Hermione drew her wand. 

“Limousin,” she agreed and, when Malfoy opened the door, she slipped out into the passageway and checked in both directions. “ _Okay!_ ” she said. “ _Let's go!_ ”

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> After posting the story at **dramione_duet** —and receiving some very perceptive comments!—I thought my way through the timeline(s) again, and have made some changes to Yaxley's reactions the first time he catches D&H in the drawing room, but these don't affect the plot.


End file.
